


Where The Lovelight Gleams

by LieutenantSaavik



Series: Natasha in D.C. [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, Friends to Lovers, Real-World Locations, So there's tons of Christmas Fluff, a combination, also some St. Nicholas Day fluff, also yes this is both christmas fluff and hanukkah fluff, because there needs to be more of that, like a holiday fluff non-sexual orgy is that a thing, so have some Hanukkah fluff too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-07 10:56:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8798155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LieutenantSaavik/pseuds/LieutenantSaavik
Summary: Natasha tilts her head to the side. “You and Pietro were very alone, weren’t you?”Wanda shakes her head. “We had each other.”“That’s a tough way to live.” Natasha echoes the words of another friend, a sentiment he had expressed to her not so long ago.“But we lived,” says Wanda, simply, as if there’s all there is to say. And maybe she’s right.“Do you feel better about living here now?” Natasha asks. “About the Avengers, about America?”“I have a home now. Or… it’s coming,” Wanda replies. “With time.”





	1. Chapter 1

**2014.**

She wakes up shaking, and she knows what that means. It hasn’t happened since she got out of the Red Room, but her wrist is hurting and her limbs are spasming, trembling like white willow branches in a storm. The darkness in her bedroom turns heavy seems to fall down on her, choking her, turning itself into cold cement and pouring itself down her throat, stopping her breathing, stopping her thoughts until all she can think is that it’s happening, it’s happening, _it’s happening again-_

She jerks herself upright and staggers out of her bed and onto the floor. She almost falls down again, almost scrapes her fingernails into the loops and threads of the carpet, almost hits her elbows against the unforgiving floor. But she keeps herself upright, her legs not listening to her, her own body rebelling, her legs quaking and shaking like an earthquake, the fault lines digging under her skin and racing up her veins, splitting bone and cells and muscle and gristle pouring out from the cracks on her body, tearing apart her own mind. She places her hands on either side of her ears but it gives no relief, no relief, because the disease is inside her and tearing its way out, clawing its way into the murky darkness of her bedroom where red splotches and lines and dots are appearing and disappearing before her eyes, swimming in her vision like spots of very familiar blood. She tells them to go away in her head, tells them they’re not real, but they don’t know they’re not real and they keep dancing in front of her, breaking into smaller splotches and whirling themselves away into spirals and flowers that bloom like sicknesses and taunt her again.

She stumbles against the wall and grasps onto the curtains of her window, as if the fabric there is the skirt of a saving angel. She’s cold, so cold, but the room can’t be under 73 degrees. She claws at the curtain, drawing it closer to her, trying to get her body to listen to her mind, trying to stop shaking, stop trembling, stop falling apart-

She’s desperate, and desperation is not something Natasha can tolerate. But there she is, shivering, shaking, wanting to call Sharon, wanting to reach out, to tell someone, tell them anything.

But there’s nothing she can do. Sharon is long gone now, probably hiding out somewhere far across the world. Natasha's alone. At least she’s used to that, though.

She slowly forces her bloodless knuckles from around the curtain fabric, reaching out with a quaking arm for the corner of her bureau drawer. She catches on to the very top of it and falls against it, hitting her hip against it, hard, but forcing the sudden pain to keep her in the present, to keep her on her feet.

She feels weak and loathes herself powerfully, a cutting self-turned disgust that wracks her as hard as her trembling. Maybe a sound escapes her lips as she clings, tremors wracking her all over, everything around her cold as the Russian winter forest she was raised in. But it doesn’t matter if she’s silent or not, because the night is quiet around her and she’s on her own, on her own this winter and every day outside of it, because the Black Widow may have allies but it’s hard, so hard, for her to have a friend.

The tremors stop, after a while, but the pervasive cold doesn’t cease. Finally, she pries herself off her bureau drawer, slipping downward against the hard wood until her knees are on the carpeted floor. She bites her lip with angry teeth and reaches for the bottom drawer, missing the knob on the first try and reaching for it again, her fingers traitorously quivering. Finally, breath hitching in her throat, feeling sick, feeling weak and so, so sick, she slides it open and digs under the clothes, forcing her hand to the very back right corner. Her fingers hit against what she’s looking for, and she pulls something out. It’s cool and metal, resting in her hand, much heavier than it should be. A wave of nausea hits her as she looks at it in the half-light, but she needs it. She needs it tonight.

She then wobbles her way back to her bed, where she puts one end of it around her bedpost and the other around her left wrist. Click. Click. She slides into bed, pulls another blanket over herself, and waits for a dark, cold hour until she finally sleeps.

 *    *    *

That morning, she’s better. Still slightly sick, still slightly trembling. But better. There’s color in her face and cheeks and, when she unclicks herself and steps out of her bed, her legs listen to her and have stopped shaking.

It’s December 25. Christmas Day.

She walks to her bathroom, measuring her steps, testing her body as if it’s a machine, making sure every joint is turning and every limb can stretch. She seems to be in working order, the virus that infected her code mostly gone.

She stretches out her arm without bruises and spreads her fingers, looking at herself, how her bones and tendons and nerves connect, imagining her skin as frail as parchment, as transparent as crystal. She imagines her life written across it in cursive swirls, written in red ink that turns brown and stings as it dries.

Enough of that. She brushes her hair and gets dressed.

She’s on the run, or rather, laying low, renting an apartment in Arlington, a large Virginia county bordering DC. It’s not cheap, but the neighborhoods are quiet and beautiful and just what she needs. The DC drama has still not blown over, but she’s decided to stay nearby. It’s always better to be prepared, in case anything else comes up. She doesn’t know if the Winter Soldier -- Bucky -- will return to where he was last seen, and if he does, it’s better she deal with him first, rather than the emotional Steve or anyone else who might not understand the assasin’s true identity. Especially not after how Steve had told the world the Winter Soldier died to prevent the U.S. government (or anyone else) trying to hunt him down.

It has been several months and roughly two seasons since the battle in June, however, and his return is seeming less and less likely.

The idea of Russia calls to her, at the back of her mind. She wants to find her parents, if they still live. But she’s not ready. Not quite yet.

She undresses out of her pajamas and redresses herself in dark blue denim jeans, a camisole, an outer red shirt, and a leather jacket. Then she heads for the door, packing some lunch food in her purse and zipping up her pair of black boots. She’ll walk today. See how far she gets and then turn around and head back. Look at the Christmas decorations and eat on whatever park bench her feet carry her to.

People-watching has always been fascinating to Natasha, because everyone who sees her has no idea who she is. She revels in the freedom of it; she can be anyone to anybody, and nobody has to know of what she’s done.

She’s Natalie Rushman and Tatiana Sokolova and Alion Vans and Marya Konn and Irina Zlataryova. She’s anyone, and in that, she’s free.

*    *    *

She ends up eating at Williamsburg Shopping Center, sitting on the small, stone drop-off from the parking lot to the sidewalk below, her feet dangling over the edge and her back resting against the railing. Lunch is a simple peanut-butter sandwich, a far cry from a Christmas meal, but it suits her fine. No restaurants are open, of course.

She watches the people pass by, few and far-between, and most dressed in dark coats. People smile at each other on the sidewalk, and each expression of joy hits like a little stab.

Finally, she pushes herself off the small stone wall and walks down the sidewalk, wandering down 26th and Quintana and Quantico streets, observing two girls playing in a large magnolia tree and a red-haired, older lady walking her golden retriever, which she stopped to pet. There are Christmas lights on almost every house and everyone is bundled-up cozy, since it’s 30 degrees outside. Everywhere she looks, there’s the idea of comfort and safety and home, but it’s not _her_ comfort or safety or home, nor is it something she has ever experienced.

She arrives back to her apartment sadder than when she left, her feet taking the stairs up slower than normal, her head down.

She spends the rest of the afternoon rereading Charles Dickens’s _A Christmas Carol_ and watching Christmas episodes of various shows. Thoughts creep into her mind; unhappy ones, but she does her best to push them away. Now is not the time for that.

For dinner, she has leftover pizza which she doesn’t even warm up. Maybe it’s subconscious self-punishment, denying herself something warm. But that thought doesn’t cross her mind.

She considers killing herself again. It’s the holiday season, a time of joy, and she’s very far apart from it. However, she turns her mind from the thought with a quick, decisive snap. The world needs her; she has a purpose now.

 

A few minutes later, there’s a ping from her phone. Steve’s texted her.

She lifts up the device. It’s a video message. He’s eating dinner at Peggy Carter’s nursing home.

She smiles and sends him a “Merry Christmas, Rogers,” to which he responds with the :P emoji. Sighing at his dorkiness, Natasha switches off her phone and places it on her coffee table, stretching her feet out onto said table and relaxing into cushions as she watches _How The Ghosts Stole Christmas_ , an entertaining episode of the X-Files. The red-haired woman is familiar, but she can’t quite remember…

And then, of course, a flashback hits.

*    *    *

The couple in the target house is watching television when Natalia Romanova knocks on the door to enter. The man comes to answer it. He’s light-skinned and has somewhat of a double-chin and generic hazel eyes. “Are you selling cookies?” he asks, taking in her khaki sash gratuitously stuck-over with colorful, machine-embroidered badges.

Natalia smiles. “We only have Thin Mints right now, sir,” she says, as if it’s a confession. “Still, they’re our most popular variety, so would you like some of those?”

He nods and smiles again. “How much?”

“Three dollars and fifty cents.” She makes a show of shivering and hopes it’ll work.

“Oh, it’s cold outside, isn’t it?” he asks, suddenly worried. Internally, Natalia cheers. This one will be easy.

“Yes,” she says. “My home is quite a few blocks away, and my feet hurt, too.” She gives a sheepish smile, as if embarrassed to have revealed so much.

The man frowns. He’s compassionate; Natalia can tell. “Do you want to come inside?”

She’s about to say yes when a voice comes from the back. “Who’re you talking to?” she asks.

“Girl Scout!” he hollers back.

“Oh!”

A somewhat chubby, round-faced, dark-skinned and attractive woman comes to the door. Natalia wonders how she ended up marrying such a potato of a husband. She also wonders what she did to become an enemy of the Red Room. “I used to be a Girl Scout,” the woman says cheerfully. “Do you have Thin Mints?”

Natalia nods and smiles. “That’s all we have left right now, ma’am.”

The woman smiles. “Usually Scouts sell in April, I thought. You’re a little early this year, huh?”

Natalia freezes for a second. “Guess so,” she laughs. “The Council changed the rules, though.” She goes back on script. “There’s also an award for most cookies sold. and I want to win it.” She gives a brighter grin and their suspicions fall away. _Wow. Girls really_ **_can_ ** _get away with a lot._

She purposefully shivers again and the woman absolutely melts. _First the man and now her. It’s so_ **_easy_ ** _!_

“It’s cold out there, isn’t it?” the woman asks, her voice dripping with a still-unfamiliar emotion. Concern. “I know you’re not supposed to,” she continues, “but maybe you should come inside?”

Natalia shifts. “Yes, please,” she says, fake-shyly. “I’ve been out here for a while.”

“I’ll say!” the man agrees. “It’s awfully late for you to be out selling, isn’t it?”

“I like the evening,” Natalia blurts. It’s the first truthful thing she’s said to them. Quickly, she tries to cover. “Don’t you?”

“It’s getting _dark_ though, hon,” the woman points out. “Look!”

She’s right; outside, the sun is just finishing its descent to the other side of the world. Only a few orange streaks are visible above the roofs of the neighborhood houses.

“My mom told me to be home just after sunset,” Natalia says. “I think your house will be my last. Do you mind, though, if I step inside just to warm up a bit before I start the walk home?”

She supposes it’s safe to ask, since they’ve invited her inside twice now.

“Of course,” the two say in unison. The woman holds the door and Natalia enters.

When the couple close the door behind her, she takes a few steps forward and reaches her arm into her sweater pocket. She turns with the gun, flicks the safety off and silencer on, and, before they can even register that there’s a weapon in her hand, shoots the man and then the woman in the chest.

The gun had made almost no sound; just two small pops that probably weren’t even audible a few feet away, let alone from out on the sidewalk or in a neighboring house. It’s also helpful that everyone’s television seems to be the hot commodity at this time in the evening. _Speaking of which… what’s on?_

She looks back at the bodies. They’re still; Natalia’d known she wouldn’t miss. She feels bad about killing the woman. She was kind to Natalia, and one of the only people ever to be so. But if she was the Red Room’s enemy, she needed to die.

She shifts the bodies so they’re facing the door (a difficult task that takes several minutes) and continues farther into the house. She’s supposed to take some valuables; make it look like there was an armed robbery. What to take, though? Nothing that would too heavy or suspicious in a suitcase, but something valuable enough to shoot someone over.

_Silverware, perhaps?_

The still-blaring television set draws her, though. She’s curious about the country she finds herself in, America, and she figures that watching a bit of its TV would say a lot about the place. She crosses into the living room, lifts the dead couple’s remote, and flicks through the channels before settling on FOX. For the next hour, she sits and watches an entertaining show about a logical, gun-toting red-haired woman and an emotional brunette man going undercover at a planned community to discover a murderous monster.

Natalia likes the red-haired woman. She reminds her of herself.

*    *    *

Natasha, back in the present, tilts her head back and groans at the ceiling, loud and long, letting the sound and anguish pour out of her. Most days, her trauma is like an annoyance, something to be suppressed and forgotten. But some days and whenever she sees a clear link, like a Girl Scout sash, the disguise for many of her missions -- _murders_ \-- everything comes rushing back, each memory like a horse with pounding hooves in a horserace, trying to see which can overwhelm her first.

 

Pushing the memory back is difficult. She remembers the woman’s smile, her plump cheeks, her husband’s worry. What they were wearing or how tall they were or what the outside of their house looked like or even what their names are have dissolved into a memory-blur, but it’s only the faces that matter. Natasha remembers all of their faces, after all. They’re dead as a door-nail, her very own Marley’s ghost. Which makes her Scrooge, of course. Doomed to die on Christmas Day, unless she changes her fate.

But she did change her fate, didn’t she? The chain of kills she wears, the red in her ledger, forged link by link and yard by yard, is behind her. The red can’t be wiped out, but new, clean pages can be placed into the book. And Scrooge did remove his own shackles by being kind, by opening his heart, by becoming a savior to Tiny Tim and his whole family.

It’s damned inspiring to Natasha, but she doesn’t want to think about it any longer. And when one does not wish to think, there’s only one thing to be done.

Natasha goes to her cabinet and pulls out some vodka, staring at it for a few moments before pouring herself two shots.

She downs them both and returns to the television. She will conquer this memory today. She’ll finish the episode. Maybe she’ll do it while intoxicated, but she will beat it.

She feels something, after the hour of television draws to a close. She’s taken a couple more shots than she’s intended to and is verging just past tipsy, so it’s more than possible she’s imagining it. Her mind seems divided, with half of it ready to laugh or cry at anything and the other half observing, keeping tabs of the level of intoxication without interfering at all, and ready to laugh or cry at the other half. In her more rational half, she almost feels like there’s something, some emotion that doesn’t come from her surrounding her, and the woman’s face comes back into her head.

She might as well say it. Lying sprawled on her couch in front of the TV with two empty shot glasses on the coffee table in front of her, nearly drunk on Christmas Day, she feels…

 

Forgiven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've struggled with flashbacks and isolation myself, so I hope the portrayal here is at least semi-realistic. Natasha deserves her own movie and a merrier Christmas than she has here, but there's more coming.
> 
> "NATASHA IS A SCROOGE" was sent to me by the lovely and hysterically funny  rc1788, which inspired me to add a stronger connection, though I do believe that by the message she meant the whole hating-christmas schtick rather than the guilt for the harm you've caused and the whole turning-your-life-around thing.
> 
> Additionally,  this post by  this user cracked me up, and I knew right then that I had to write something with Wanda, Natasha, and Hanukkah.


	2. Chapter 2

**2015.**

Wanda knocks on Natasha’s door. “Hello?” she calls.

Natasha opens the door. She’s dressed informally, in blue jeans and a looser-than-normal jacket. Her room is dimly lit with only a single lamp glowing; it’s dark outside and Natasha, much like a cat, doesn’t like bright light.

Wanda is carrying a box of candles and a silver candelabra with nine candle holders, the one in the middle taller than the others. Natasha recognizes it as a menorah.

“Happy Hanukkah,” Wanda says, smiling.

Natasha is slightly taken-aback. “Thank you.”

“May I come in, please?”

Natasha nods. “We’re friends, Wanda.” She steps to the side and holds the door open.

Wanda’s smile fades, as if she’s not entirely sure Natasha is telling the truth. She’s a very private woman, after all. Not unlike Wanda herself.

Still, she steps by Natasha into her room and slides off her shoes, out of respect for the space. 

Natasha watches her. She and Wanda have gotten closer; she’s trained the newest, youngest Avenger and has, maybe, not always been as kind as she should have been. But they’re two girls in a world against them, and that’s already a strong bond.

She doesn’t quite know why Wanda is here in her room with her, but she’s happy she’s there. “Happy Hanukkah to you, too,” she tries.

There’s a bit of an awkward pause.

“You find this strange. You find me strange,” Wanda observes, after a while.

Natasha blinks. “I find you intriguing. And I don’t know why you’re here.”

Wanda nods. “Nobody should spend a holiday alone. Not even the Black Widow.”

“You’d be surprised what wonders a quiet night in can do.”

“But not on Hanukkah.”

“I’ve never celebrated Hanukkah, so I don’t think I’d know,” Natasha says wryly.

Wanda gives a tiny laugh. “Well, that’s not surprising. I can’t imagine they had much where-”

“Please don’t talk about it.” Natasha’s voice is gentle, but there’s a sudden distance in her face and something like a subtle wall falling back into place behind her eyes.

Most people wouldn’t notice the infinitesimal change, but Wanda has been in Natasha’s head, a violation she deeply regrets. So she changes the subject instead, deftly sliding two candles out of their box. “This is my first time doing all this without Pietro.”

There’s a long pause. “I’m sorry,” Natasha finally says.

Wanda closes her eyes and gives herself a sad, private smile that quickly fades. “It was his choice. I allow him that, now. But it still hurts.”

She rolls two candles back and forth between her fingers. “Our house was destroyed and our life along with it. Pietro stole a lot, you know. Little things, at first. A glass pin that looked like a ruby. Then a blouse for me, or a scarf in winter. Some cufflinks he thought were pretty. I told him to stop, because I knew he’d get in trouble. But he was fast, Pietro. Quick fingers, quick eyes. They never caught him.”

Natasha stands back and lets Wanda speak. Her voice has a unique cadence, like the flowing of a brook over rocks, under bridges. Natasha spins all sorts of stories, both real and fake, but listening to them is not something she has often done. It’s a change, but one she likes.

“Pietro always believed in  _ Çdo njeri ndërton fatin e vet. _ To some, it might mean ‘Every person builds their own fortune’ or ‘each person alone controls their own destiny.’ But to him, it meant that he could not rely on the help of others for anything he did. So he took that help for himself.”   


“ _ Çdo nj _ -” Natasha tries to repeat the proverb but stumbles over the unfamiliar sounds. “Is that Sokovian?”

“It’s Albanian in origin, but the idea is common everywhere. I learned it from a Roma woman when a group of them came to my village. The Roma travel all places. They are very wise, you know. Some people see them as beggars, as scum,” Wanda’s voice darkens here, becomes thick with rage. “Those people are stupid. My brother and I would go to their campsites whenever they arrived. We would watch them, and listen. He learned more from them and their music and their stories than he ever did in school. We are part Roma ourselves, and I think something about them called to him. If not for me, I believe he would have tried to join their number. He always wanted to run, Pietro. But not away from me.”

Natasha tilts her head to the side. “You two were very alone, weren’t you?”

Wanda shakes her head. “We had each other.”

“That’s a tough way to live.” Natasha echoes the words of another friend, a sentiment he had expressed to her not so long ago.

“But we lived,” says Wanda, simply, as if there’s all there is to say. And maybe she’s right.

“Do you feel better about living here now?” Natasha asks. “About the Avengers, about America?”

“I have a home now. Or… it’s coming,” Wanda replies. “With time.”

Natasha nods, the words resonating more than she cares to admit. “Not many would come to me for festive fun, you know,” she observes.

“I feel like you need it.”

Natasha blinks. “Where did you get that idea?”

Wanda shrugs. The rings on her fingers glitter. “I just know.”

“So you’re one of the intuitive types, huh?”

“This surprises you?” There’s a bit of a playful smile at the edge of Wanda’s lips as she straightens the wicks on the candles in her hands. “Are you not intuitive yourself, Natasha?”

Natasha shrugs. “I used to be. Used to be able to see what people are like, use my ‘gut feeling’ to guess and assess their fears, their joys. I’d use it to take them down, of course.”

Wanda nods, unfazed. “It’s not unlike what I can do, you know.”

Natasha hadn’t thought of that, and it gives her pause, briefly. “Maybe.”

Wanda turns back to the menorah. “You want to celebrate Hanukkah with me, then?”

“Sure.” 

Wanda turns, slightly surprised. There’s a sort of glimmer, deep down in Natasha’s eye; a curiosity. Wanda likes that spark. She realizes that there is a lot of light there, dancing along with it. “So what do we do?” Natasha asks.

“Now we light the shammus and pray.”

Natasha draws her mouth into somewhere between a slash and a half-smile. “I’m really not one for prayer, Maximoff.”

Wanda smiles again. “But you’ve never prayed with me, have you?” She, feeling teasing, elbows Natasha lightly in the side. “Come on. I’ll teach you how to say the words.”

Natasha’s half-smirk grows, but still doesn’t break into a smile. “If you insist.”

“ _ Baruch ata Adonai _ ,” Wanda begins, holding a match to the shammus wick and continuing to hold the lit candle. She places the other candle down and holds out a scrap of paper with the prayers written on them to Natasha, every syllable laid out phonetically. They speak together as the single candle glows. “ _ Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam _ .”

“Blessed are you, Lord our God, sovereign of the universe,” Wanda translates. “ _ Asher kidishanu b'mitz'votav v'tzivanu _ , who has sanctified us with his commandments and commanded us, _ l'had'lik neir shel Chanukah _ . To light the lights of Hanukkah.” She pauses. “Amen.”

Natasha watches Wanda watch the flame, her own voice dying out before the end of the first prayer. She doesn’t know what she believes in and has never considered herself religious. But there’s a beauty in what Wanda’s doing, in the simplicity and belief of it. Lighting a candle, saying a prayer.

Wanda begins the second prayer. “ _ Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam _ . Blessed are you, Lord, our God, sovereign of the universe,  _ she'asah nisim la'avoteinu bayamim haheim baziman hazeh _ . Who performed miracles for our ancestors in those days at this time. Amen.”

Wanda turns to Natasha. “Say the last one with me, please. It’s special for the first night.” She holds the shammus out toward Natasha’s hand, wanting her to take it.

Natasha shakes her head, but she lifts the scrap of paper back to her eyes. The opening phrase is familiar to her now, and she says it with ease, letting her voice mimic the cadence of Wanda’s. “ _ Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam _ . Blessed are you, Lord, our God, sovereign of the universe.”

“ _ Shehecheyanu v'kiyimanu v'higi'anu laz'man hazeh _ , who has kept us alive, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this season,” they finish together.

Wanda closes her eyes after the last prayer for a moment. Then she places the candle into its holder, the tallest on the menorah. She takes the other off the table and places it in the far right of the menorah. “Would you like to light it?” she asks Natasha.

Natasha shakes her head again. “But thank you.”

Wanda nods and pulls the shammus from its holder and uses its light to light the first Hanukkah candle. 

She steps back. The two candles, spaced-out, glow very separately, and Natasha imagines how the menorah would look, every candle lit. The fire… it reminds her of something. And suddenly the memory is back, slamming into her and overwhelming her like a tidal wave, a force so strong it drowns her mind. She can’t hope to control it, but she furiously tries.

“I have to go,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. The two flames leave afterimages on her eyes as she turns away and nausea rises in her, her body trying to heave her stomach to her mouth. She places her hand on the table, her fingers curved into claws. The memory slams into her, the smell of infection and burning hair and bandages and smoke, all the smoke, rising into the sky.

Forcing the feeling back is difficult, but she’s had practice. The flashbacks happen less and less often, now, but she doesn’t know if they’ll ever leave her.

“What’s wrong?” Wanda asks, her eyes dark, concerned.

“Nothing,” says Natasha quickly. She steps away from the fire in the menorah. Her mind echoes distant screams, screams of the sick and the dying, the innocents that she killed. Hospital fire. An accident. It was her.  _ It was her _ -

She turns away. Her hair falls over her face, throwing her eyes into shadow and hiding the sudden emotion in them. “Please go, Wanda.”

Wanda doesn’t.

“Go.”

She shakes her head and steps up behind Natasha. “I can help,” she says. “Natasha, I can-”

She raises her hands. “I can take the pain and the fear away.” 

Red licks at the tips of her fingers, casting shadows that dance with the flickering of the candles and make more red, flamelike patterns on the wall.

“Wanda.” Natasha’s voice is unreadable. Then it turns angrier. “GET OUT.”

Wanda flinches as if Natasha has slapped her, jerking backward. Her eyes wide, she spins on her heel and grasps the menorah, lifting it, surrounding it with a tiny shield of scarlet magic so the flames don’t burn out in the sudden wind, and carrying it with her out of the room,. 

The door closes shut behind her with a finality that resounds like relief. Natasha relaxes.  
  


But it only takes a few moments for her to start feeling guilty.

 

She looks around the room. Wanda’s shoes are still by the door.

It’s December 6th. St. Nicholas Day.

Wanda’s shoes have probably not been filled since her parents died, Natasha realizes.

 

St. Nicholas is the most revered saint in Russia, the protector of the weak and oppressed, and legends and tales of him would pass into the Red Room by way of the trucks that delivered the girls’ food, their training clothes. Girls were not allowed to speak to the drivers, but because the room had to keep their cover as a ballet boarding school (nothing brainwash-y going on here), the girls were allowed freedom for the few hours when the drivers arrived and unloaded. St. Nicholas Day has never been something Natasha has experienced, but maybe she can give it to someone else.

She slips out of her room. Wanda’s is on the same floor but farther down, so Nat takes the stairs down to the ground floor and, by extension, the kitchen. 

There are decorations in the foyer, she knows. But the kitchen is the first stop. She steps through the hallways quickly, glad most people seem to be busy in their rooms or are not at the facility. Rhodes, Tony, and Pepper are already with their families for the holiday season (and Thor and Bruce are still, of course, MIA), but Clint has brought his family to the facility for Christmas and Sam and Steve are also staying for a few more days. Vision, too, since he doesn’t exactly have a family to go back to. And Dr. Helen Cho, as well, has a new lab set up in the basement, where she’s usually found.

 

When she arrives at the kitchen, she sees Sam, who’s stirring something that looks like coffee and talking with Steve.

They stop as soon as she enters. “Hey, Natasha,” Sam says with a grin, placing his cup back on the table. “How are you?”

“Alright.” Her almost-flashback is gone, pushed away again, so she considers that a victory. “Would you mind if I had some of that drink? What is it, exactly?”

“Hot chocolate.”

Natasha smiles. “Sounds wonderful.”

Sam pours her a cup and pushes it towards her across the granite island-countertop in the middle of the kitchen. “Girl after my own heart.”

When Natasha doesn’t reply,  Steve gives her a slightly concerned look. “Nat? Are you sure you’re doing alright?”

“You seem apprehensive,” Sam adds, giving her a sideways look as he resumes sipping.

Natasha shrugs. “Don’t know what you mean.”

She turns and beelines for the fruit basket, pulling out two slightly shriveled tangerines. They’ll have to do.

She thanks both men and takes the hot cup and leaves the kitchen, balancing the cup between the two tangerines in her hands, and heads into the entrance to the facility next.  
  


There’s a decorated Christmas tree there, a tall, wide one reaching at least forty feet, decorated with baubles of every color and real candy canes. The tastefulness of the ornaments are courtesy of Pepper’s artistic taste, though Nat would bet her favorite pair of combat boots that the tree’s extravagance was Tony’s idea. Flamboyance aside, the tree adds a sense of home to the entryway, which would otherwise be rather sparse. 

Nat stares up at the branches. There is a significant lack of candy canes on the bottom boughs, meaning that Clint Barton has probably been systematically swiping them off the branches from the bottom-up.

Well, there’s only one thing to be done.

Natasha places the drink and tangerines down and swings herself up onto the second tier of branches. She’s climbed pines before, but never ones bred to be decorative. Still, she hitches herself up, only knocking a single ornament to the floor. Foot on one branch, hand around another. Hand on another branch. Foot on the branch above the one it was on before. Grasp the place where the branch meets the trunk, because it’s strongest there, or just shimmy up the trunk, if you can. Silver jingling echoes all around her, and she slows her climbing pace so as not to knock any more ornaments down. Parkouring up shit is second-nature to Natasha, though, Christmas decor aside, and soon she’s halfway up the pine.

She stretches out and loops her finger around a candy-cane, lifting it off the tree. Legs and left arm wrapped around the trunk, she sticks it in her pocket and scrambles two more branches upward, deftly flicking another one into her hand.

The branches are too thin to keep going, now, so she braces her feet against the tree and interlaces her fingers behind it, rather like how a sloth hangs off a branch, but horizontal. Then, she uses the pressure of her feet as a spring to push her up and backward off the tree and flips backward off it, dropping the long way to the ground and landing in a crouch.

Clint is staring at her, his mouth wide open.

Natasha stands and checks her pockets. Both of the canes seem intact. “What are you looking at?” she asks him loftily before retrieving the tangerines and hot chocolate, which is now edging toward lukewarm.

“How did you....”

“Years of training.” Natasha notices he has his bow. “Were you really going to shoot the candy canes off the tree, Barton?”

Clint stutters a response. Natasha gives him a grin and breezes by him, heading back up toward her room.

There, she shoves the candy canes and tangerines into the pair of shoes that Wanda left. It’s not much, but hopefully, it’s something.

Then she goes to her chocolate stash and empties out half of it on the floor, dividing the pile in half and shoving one half in each of the shoes. To finish out, she stuffs in a pair of clean (if not new) warm, winter socks (that are Star Wars themed; Natasha is a giant dork).

She crosses the hall to Wanda’s room and knocks on her door, dropping off the shoes and the drink. Then she slips off the way she’d come.

She hears the door open behind her but is already hidden in the shadows. When she checks back a few minutes later, the shoes are gone.

It’s around nine, so Natasha decides to take a short walk outside, in the winter cold she loves. She pulls on her boots and heads out the door, hoping she doesn’t see Wanda in the hallways.

She doesn’t, so she leaves the facility and closes the door behind her, deciding to loop around the lake and maybe skip some rocks on the placid water. In Natasha’s opinion, the new Avengers facility, while unattractive on the outside, is much better than Avengers Tower by virtue of its landscape and space. The best thing about it, though, is that it’s hidden. The world is still coming to terms with the destruction of Sokovia, and Natasha has a feeling that it won’t exactly blow over anytime soon. So the Avengers are “on hiatus,” in Tony’s words, which basically means they’re licking their wounds and keeping their fingers crossed. It’s been several months since Ultron, but public opinion of the heroes is still mixed.

 

The lake is quiet, as it always is. It’s Natasha’s favorite spot to be alone, and she finds her typical rock, sliding over it to lie on her stomach and drip her fingertips into the lake. The ripples spread all across it, irreparably changing peaks and valleys of the landscape of the water. She watches the moonlight reflecting off the ripples, moving along them in streaks and dots and dashes, like the moon is sending her a message in Morse. She smiles at the thought and rolls onto her back, letting the tips of her hair fall backwards into the water as she lies and stares at the moon above her. It’s a thin crescent, like a sideways smile that echoes her own smirk, and she watches it for a while, pondering how it looks so still, so peaceful, while in truth, it’s being wrenched along in circles, pulled by Earth’s orbit, perpetually falling but never landing. An endless slingshot.  _ When one really dives into it _ , she thinks wryly,  _ it seems like a form of torture. _

She flips over and pushes herself up to her feet. She’s tired, and the rock under her was starting to cut into her bones.  So she starts to walk back, curving away from the lake and angling by the copses of trees. An owl hoots somewhere far away, and she looks up to see it flying, darker against the dark sky, a lethal swoop of a feathered thing. She smiles and sticks her hands in her pockets, continuing her walk with a bit more of a lightness in her step. When she finally arrives back, there’s something outside her room.

A pair of shoes. A new pair of combat boots, to be exact. Stuffed with shiny tinsel and tangerines, candy canes, what looks like Jolly Ranchers, and peppermint Hershey’s kisses. And, of course, a giant potato.

Natasha stares and stares and stares without approaching. The shoes are brimming, the tinsel pouring over in glittering tatters onto the floor.

“So, do you like it?” Wanda has approached her silently, a trick Natasha taught her in training.

Natasha whirls, surprised. “Yes!”

Wanda smiles and gestures to the people in the hallway behind her. “Well, I had some help.”

“Eyyyy,” calls Sam, smiling widely. Steve’s next to him, along with Clint and Laura, who dorkily waves. Helen stands next to Vision, who’s floating a foot or so off the floor. All are smiling.

Natasha breaks into a grin. “Wanda… why did you do this?” She marvels at the kindness, her eyes drinking in the sight of the filled shoes. It’s almost like something has been restored, something she didn’t even know was missing.

Wanda smile grows brighter. “You did it for me.” She tilts her head, observing Natasha up and down. “And Steve pointed out that you spent Christmas alone last year. You deserve a treat.”

“Wanda, this is… amazing.” The act of kindness has left Natasha almost speechless, so instead of speaking, she gives the younger woman a hug. “Thank you.”

Wanda, shocked at the voluntary affection from  _ Natasha _ , of all people, stiffens before hugging back. “You deserve it,” she says, turning her head sideways on Natasha’s shoulder. She realizes she’s taller than Nat, which surprises her; she’s always looked up to the Avenger in practice and training and everything else. But they hug naturally and comfortably, as if they’ve done it before. They hug like friends.

 

Though neither of them see, Sam, behind them, elbows Steve in the side and whispers something. Steve’s eyes widen and he turns back to Sam. “You think?” 

Sam, looking at the two women, smirks and nods. “Definitely.”

“What’s that about?” Instantly suspicious, Natasha breaks the hug.

“Nothin,’” says Sam, smiling. “You two have a happy St. Nicholas Day, alright?”

Natasha smiles. “Will-do, Wilson.”

She turns to the others, still standing in the hallway. “This was so kind of you. I honestly can’t thank you enough.”

Laura comes forward and hugs the woman she considers a sister. “Like Wanda said. You deserve everything you got. And a very happy St. Nicholas to both of you.” She holds Natasha by the shoulders, smiles at her, and plants a kiss on her cheek. “I love you.”

There’s the sudden faint sound of crying as Laura pulls away. Clint pulls a baby monitor from his pocket and holds it out. “Laur? I think Nataniel’s awake.”

“Ah, shoot,” Laura exhales. She hugs Natasha again, quickly, and retreats back to Clint, where they both curve around the baby monitor. The noise of crying continues to emanate from it, and Laura sighs.

Clint turns and smiles at Nat, who smiles back. He points subtly to Wanda. “Kiss her!” he signs rapidly.

Natasha’s mouth drops open in outrage. Clint signs that he’s joking, sheesh, and, cackling, disappears down the hallway at Laura’s side.

Natasha stares after them in disbelief, shaking her head. Then she turns to Steve, Sam, Helen, and Vision, who are lingering with increasing awkwardness.

“Thank you, too,” she says quietly. The filled shoes have moved her more than she wants to say.

“I’m afraid I didn’t have much to contribute,” says Vision. “However, I was curious to learn about this human tradition. I knew shoes serve the purpose of making human feet appear societally acceptable, but I had no idea that they were also storage vessels for sweet things.”

“That’s one of their main purposes, actually,” says Sam factually, internally yelling. “They also serve as a foodsource. We humans can, when stressed, absorb nutrients through our feet, so we also take nourishment from walking in shoes.”

“Really?” Vision floats a couple inches higher. “I hadn’t thought that the chemical composition of footwear would serve that purpose as well. And your feet? This is  _ fascinating _ .”

Everyone collapses into laughter, Helen falling against the wall in her mirth.

Natasha goes to her next, hugging her, too. “Thank you, Dr. Cho.”

“I only added the peppermint kisses,” Helen laughs. “They’re my favorite.”

Natasha grins and pulls back. “Well, now they’re my favorite, too.”

Helen gives her another smile. “Happy St. Nicholas. And please, call me Helen.”

Then she turns and returns down the hallway, back to her private life. Vision awkwardly floats behind her like a child following his mom. “Can humans really eat through their feet?” Nat hears him ask Helen. She grins.  
  


Then there’s just Steve, Sam, and Wanda.

“You were the boots, I assume?” Nat asks Steve, tilting her head and smiling.

Steve grins. “They were going to be a Christmas gift. Until this one,” he gestures to Wanda, “came flying down to the kitchen-”

“Literally flying, I might add,” Sam cuts in. Steve laughs. Wanda smiles sheepishly and ducks her head.

“She grabbed every tangerine in the basket and asked if we had any of Natasha’s shoes.”

“Now, why we’d have any of Natasha’s shoes is beyond me,” Sam adds, “but-”

“You could just have come into my room and taken them,” Natasha says to Wanda, half-laughing. 

Wanda shrugs. “Your privacy.”

Natasha smiles thoughtfully. “Thanks.”

“So I asked her, as was reasonable, why the hell she was stealing all our oranges-”

“Tangerines,” Wanda corrects. “Oranges are traditional, but we didn’t have any.”

“All our tangerines, then, and she said she was going to put them in your shoes.” Sam shrugs. “Now, I know the Avengers are strange people, but that was, like, a whole new world of weird.”

“ _ It’s tradition! _ ” chorus Natasha and Wanda in twin tones of outrage. Sam and Steve break into laughter.

“So we ask her why,” Steve says, taking up the story, “and she explains St. Nicholas Day and how it’s a European thing. She says that you filled her shoes and that she wants to do the same for you, and also that you didn’t seem happy.”

Natasha turns to Wanda. “I’m fine!”

Wanda shakes her head. “You weren’t.”

Natasha makes a sour face and then drops the guise. “Well, that’s true,” she admits, which takes more strength than she expected. “But I’m very happy now.”

Wanda nods and risks giving Natasha another hug. Natasha hugs back, and the physical contact actually feels good, feels comforting. “Thank you again,” she says quietly.

“Let’s leave them to it,” whispers the more-socially-intelligent Sam to Steve, starting back down the hallway. Steve follows, leaving Natasha and Wanda to their own devices.

“Want to help me eat all this?” Natasha asks, pulling away and gesturing to her boots and smiling.

“Of course!” Wanda giggles, a surprisingly youthful sound.

Natasha feels her spirits lift again and she grabs her new combat boots in her hands, taking them with her into her room. Wanda follows. “Would you mind if I get the menorah?” she asks, after a beat.

“Please do.” Nat smiles.

Wanda returns with it a moment later, the two candles significantly shorter but still burning strong. Natasha sees the firelight and steels herself against any flashbacks. But, with someone she now considers a friend next to her, she thinks she’ll be alright.

Wanda sets down the menorah. Its two lights glow over her and Natasha, merging with the gold of the single lamp and casting the women in a soft-edged glow.

“Chocolate first?” Wanda asks, pulling out and unwrapping a peppermint bark Hershey kiss. 

“Of course!”

Wanda laughs and tosses a Hershey kiss in the air towards Natasha, who catches it one-handed, unwraps it, and tosses it into her mouth. “Delicious.”

 

Conversation becomes needless when there’s chocolate to be eaten, so the girls are quiet for a while, Wanda occasionally levitating candy over to Natasha who will either eat it or toss it back. It becomes a bit of a game, after a while, and before either woman notices, it’s past ten.

The shoes are looking remarkably empty when Wanda finally declares herself full. She stands, takes the now-flameless menorah, and makes for the door, but Nat stops her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Thank you for all this,” she says again. She searches Wanda’s face for a second, looking for anger, insincerity perhaps, but all she sees is a smile.

“You deserve it.” Wanda plants a tiny kiss on Natasha’s cheek and leaves the room, not noticing that it’s entirely possible that Natasha, behind her, is blushing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've realized how strange all this might sound to someone who isn't used to the tradition of St. Nicholas Day, or Mikulás, as I call it, being Hungarian. Basically, how I celebrate it, you put your shoes out the night of the 5th, and on the 6th, they're full of stuff. You get oranges and candy if you've been good all year and coal, potatoes, and onions if you've been bad. Hanukkah began December 6 in 2015, so I was delighted to write (and experience) two holidays in one.
> 
> 'Çdo njeri ndërton fatin e vet' is a real Albanian proverb, and yes, it really does mean that each person controls their own fate! I'd imagine that Albania and Sokovia would have a lot in common, so to characterize Wanda, I drew on what I remember from living in Albania when I was very young.


	3. Chapter 3

**2016.**

Wanda opens Natasha’s door quietly, creeping across the floor as silently as Natasha taught her to. Her feet are in over-the-knee socks, and she half-slides along the floorboards, hugging side of the wall and doing her best to be agile.

She succeeds in not waking Natasha up and considers that the achievement of the century. Forget saving townspeople and innocents from Ultron -- this is much better.

As soon as the word ‘Ultron’ crosses her mind, the thought of Pietro does, too. It’s hard to let him go, and she knows she never will, but when she fingers the Evil Eye medallion she keeps under her clothes, she knows he’s with her. She has to know he’s with her, or rather she has to _believe_ he’s with her, or she’d truly fall apart. And she’s determined never to fall apart. Pietro would hate it.

Her thoughts wander back further. Most of her childhood memories of Sokovia express themselves in greys and beiges. Not like a black-and-white photograph, but a full-color image of a mostly colorless world. Ironic, for the witch named after the most vivid shade of the color red.

 

She pushes herself back to the present, into the colorful world she now finds herself in. Natasha is lying asleep in front of her, covers kicked all around her, barely covering her body at all. Swaths of skin, legs and an arm thrown out to the side. Red hair pooling around a head turned sideways. Her face is crinkled, like she’s tasting something unpleasant, and as Wanda watches, her legs move. She’s clearly deep in a dream. _Well, that explains why I didn’t wake her opening the door._

Wanda gets closer, until she’s almost leaning over Natasha’s bed. Then, she playfully jumps on top of her.

 

Natasha wakes with a start and brings her knees up to her chest, kicking out and hitting Wanda right in her solar plexus, throwing her sharply backward. Wanda is tossed to the bottom of the bed, catching herself a few inches off of the mattress with glowing red light.

Natasha’s hair is a mess around her face as she sits bolt upright, breathing hard. Her right arm is up in front of her face, in half a fighting guard. Her other arm is pulled behind her, as if attached to the bedpost.

Wanda stares at Natasha’s face in disbelief. It barely looks like hers.

But only for a split second. Then, Natasha’s wide eyes relax and her body slumps forward slightly. She drops her fist into her lap and exhales Wanda’s name.

Her posture screams relief. “Did I hurt you?” she asks, reaching out her right hand and pulling Wanda back onto the bed. She shifts so that her left hand, still pulled behind her, is hidden by her torso.

“I’m fine,” Wanda replies, still shaken.

“Please don’t do that again,” Natasha says quietly, brushing her thumb gently along Wanda’s cheekbone. “I don’t want to hurt you. I can’t help the reaction.”

It comes from years of trauma; Wanda knows. So she nods and scoots forward, hugging Natasha, who pulls away. “Wanda? Hold on a second. Could you close your eyes?”

Wanda, perplexed, does. There’s the sound of moving sheets, metal on metal, and then a soft flumph. Wanda cracks an eyelid. Natasha’s taken off her shirt and is smiling, with both her arms free, though her left arm, from the wrist down, is buried in blankets.

Wanda, though, frowns, pulling back from Natasha’s invitation to kiss her. “You’re hiding something.”

“What?” Natasha gives a half-laugh. “I’m not!”

Wanda shakes her head, not fooled. “I may not be a spy like you, but that doesn’t mean I can’t tell when somebody’s hiding something.”

She raises her hand and flicks her fingers. Natasha’s pillow lifts itself in the air.

Instantly, Natasha snatches the pillow back down with lightning-fast reflexes, shoving it down to her lap. She gestures to where it was. “Look. Nothing under it!”

Wanda scoots forward again, placing a hand on Natasha’s shoulder. “Natasha,” she says. “You can trust me.”

Natasha looks away, avoiding Wanda’s breath, her eyes, her concern. “There’s nothing I’m hiding.”

“This hurts me,” Wanda says matter-of-factly, sitting back, “because I know you’re lying.”

“What, is this because you can read minds?” Natasha asks, her voice turning dry and sarcastic. _Defense mechanism_ , Wanda notes.

“No. It’s because I know you, and I know what _I_ do when there’s something I am trying to hide because I worry it will hurt the people I love, to know. I distract them. I see what I do in what you are doing now.”

“Well, using my body as a distraction is something I know well,” Natasha replies succinctly. She replays Wanda’s words in her mind, her eyes flicking to the right for a second, as if she’s trying to argue out of the logic of it. She can’t quite do it, though. “You really want to know?” she asks, her mouth curving into a twisted half-smile.

She takes the pillow and flips it over, reaching into the pillowcase and pulling out a handcuff. “There,” she says emotionlessly, tossing it onto the mattress between her and Wanda. “Big secret, huh?”

Wanda takes it, lifting it to her eyes. Her first thought is that Natasha enjoys non-traditional sexual pursuits, but she immediately dismisses it. Maybe it’s true and maybe it’s not, but that’s not what the cuff is for.

She turns it over in her hands and raises her gaze to Natasha’s face. “You cuff yourself to your bed before you sleep,” she says, keeping her voice calm.

Natasha scans Wanda’s face, looking for disgust, revulsion, fear, anger, or worst of all, pity. She finds nothing, just carefully-crafted neutrality, something Wanda must have learned from her. “Not often,” she says, as frankly as she can manage. “I’ve just been relapsing lately. So yes.”

They sit in silence for a while, the cuff sitting between them. Then, in a swoop, Wanda levitates it into the air and throws it against the back wall, the furthest from the bed. It clatters to the ground, unbroken, but far from the two women.

“Why’d you do that?” Natasha asks dully.

Wanda doesn’t have an answer. She doesn’t want to force Natasha not to cuff herself. She’s deduced that it comes from the Red Room, and also that Natasha’s been doing it for years. But she also wants Natasha to stop doing it -- it’s not healthy and it’s not quite sane.

“Can I see your wrist?” she says instead.

Natasha lifts her hand from the bedcovers around it and places it, palm-down, where the cuff was. There’s a deep purple, painful-looking bruise encircling her wrist, like a twisted bracelet. Wanda hisses between her teeth. Natasha doesn’t react.

Slowly, gingerly, Wanda takes Natasha’s hand up and kisses the bruise tenderly. _I can’t make this go away_ , she tries to say with the gesture. _I can’t even heal it. But this is part of you, and it speaks of what you came from and what you’re stronger than._

Natasha seems to understand what Wanda’s saying without any words, so, face crumpling, she pulls her into a hug, clutching tight and grasping around her. She places her head on Wanda’s shoulder and lets tears fall there, her hands on Wanda’s back, Wanda’s arms wrapped around her body. Her emotions are strong, difficult, shaped like squares and octagons and everything of jagged-corners. They don’t bubble upwards but rather scratch their way forwards, sinking down to the base of her stomach or crawling in the narrow channels from her brain to her eyes and landing, finally, on Wanda’s red sweater.  “I love you,” Wanda whispers, making small, rhythmic patterns with her hand on the small of Natasha’s back.

“Love is for children,” Natasha replies, muffled.

“Then let us be children,” Wanda replies simply. She guides Natasha down, placing herself on top of her, kissing her cheekbone, her face, the underside of her chin, her collarbone. Natasha is silent, holding herself rigid, arching her back slightly as Wanda kisses down her still-shirtless chest and hugs her around her middle.

“Stop,” says Natasha softly, and Wanda does. She hitches herself up so she’s lying next to Natasha, who curls as big spoon around her, placing her hands deep into Wanda’s long, beautiful hair. “Merry Christmas Eve,” Wanda says quietly.

“Happy Hanukkah,” Natasha replies with a smile, planting a kiss to the back of Wanda’s neck. Wanda grins and buries her head in Natasha’s other pillow.

 

“I’m gonna go back to sleep,” Natasha says, after a while of lying together. “Do you want to stay, or?”

“I’ll stay. That is, if would like me to.”

“I would,” Natasha says, trying to convince herself that it’s not weakness to ask someone to stay beside her, trying to force into her mind that connecting emotionally with someone can be anything other than a way to get yourself hurt.

“Then I will stay with you,” Wanda says quietly, turning over so she and Natasha are facing each other, curved almost like the two halves of a heart. “All day and into the night, if you need me to.”

“Well,” Natasha murmurs from behind closed eyes, “I do have a fucked-up sleep schedule, but it’s not _that_ bad.”

Wanda laughs and cups her right hand behind Natasha’s neck for a moment before withdrawing the hand and placing it between them. Natasha reaches over and places her own hand on top of it, and Wanda notices that it’s her left hand, the one she’d usually cuff. Her eyes trace and re-trace the bruise of it, hypnotized, sickened by what the Red Room must have done to Natasha’s mind.

Then, she slowly pulls her right hand out from under Natasha’s and takes a good look at her own wrist. There, on her own wrist, right over her vein, is a tiny purple circle, evidence of a small puncture, once surrounded by a bruise. Right where her IV needle went in. She hadn’t thought that there would be a scar. She hadn’t looked at her wrists. Since her magic, she had looked very often at her hands and the light she could summon from them. But she hadn’t looked lower, at her wrists, at her veins still as vulnerable as if she never had any powers at all. But now she sees the scar, and she remembers.

 

She closes her eyes. There are flashes across the back of her mind, casting themselves in harsh blues and cold greys and gory reds, unfolding like origami; images, memories of her days without light. Pietro screaming. A sharp poke in her chest. The blue, glimmering stone. The painful pressure of Strucker’s on her shoulders as he urged her -- no, forced her -- to lift the blocks with magic he had given her, pushing her so hard that one day, she finally could. And it didn’t stop there. He would make her control people, make her do things to them, make her send them back to the worst days and hours of their lives, slamming their own worst memories into them and paralyzing them so they couldn’t escape. He would force her forward, upward, to the very reaches of what her scarlet magic could do, calling her an ungodly mutant when she failed and a goddess, a queen when she didn’t. She became ten times more afraid of herself than she ever was of him, though she hid the feeling from her conscious mind.

Wanda swallows and goosebumps spread over her skin. She looks across at Natasha, whose eyes are open, watching her face. “What is it?” she asks quietly, seeing the younger woman’s distress.

Wanda mutely shows Natasha her own wrist. Natasha’s eyes narrow as she looks at it, until they catch the puncture scar and stay there. She reaches out her hand and starts to rub her thumb over the tiny mark, back and forth, a repetitive, soothing gesture. “I’m here,” she says, and it’s almost an I Love You, and though it’s a simple two words, to Wanda, it’s like the world.

“We’ve both had very few constants in our lives other than pain, hm?” Natasha asks the air between them, her thumb still moving gently over Wanda’s wrist.

Wanda nods wordlessly and pushes herself forward into Natasha’s arms again. Natasha wraps herself around Wanda, legs tangled together and hair a mess. “You don’t mind staying with me for a while?” she asks.

“Not at all,” Wanda says, holding Natasha close and then separating herself and turning over so they can be spoons again. Natasha curls behind her.  


Natasha falls back asleep with one hand clutching her bruised wrist. Wanda doesn’t fall back asleep but instead makes tiny, harmless swirls of streaks and glitter, creating shapes and stories against the backdrop of Natasha’s white wall. She rolls over and creates a mesh of magic, like a mosquito net, and drapes it over the woman sleeping next to her, catching her features in it, her silhouette, the shapes of her face, and her beauty. Then she disperses the magic, watching it fade into air. Natasha opens her eyes.

“Can’t sleep?” she asks Wanda.

“No.”

“Did I sleep?”

“I think so.”

Natasha gives a tiny puff of laughter. “Well. That’s the first time in a little while without the cuff.” She rolls onto her back and smiles at the light on the ceiling.

“How long is a little while?” Wanda’s suspicious of Nat’s light tone.

“About two weeks, but I’ve been wearing it on and off for about five or six months.” Natasha shrugs. “It’s comforting to me, and I wear it when I need it most. After what happened with Steve and Barnes and my, uh, legal trouble when T’Challa tattled on me for electric-shocking him (I don’t blame him, really), I’ve been a bit of an emotional mess. By my standards, anyway.” She smiles. “Don’t worry about me, though.”

It’s comforting. Wearing that cuff, that trapping, sickening device trained into her from years of abuse, is _comforting_ for Natasha. Wanda opens her mouth, scrunches her face, and looks away, unable to catch the rest of Natasha’s words. “I’m sorry,” she finally manages. “I’m so, so sorry, Natasha.”

“Don’t be sorry, Maximoff.” Natasha sits up and kicks the covers off her legs, reaching down off the side of the bed and retrieving her sleep shirt. She slides it over her head. “Don’t you also crave pain, sometimes?”

Wanda opens her mouth to deny it but closes it equally quickly. Because she realizes she does.

There are days when she misses the Strucker’s pushing drive, his goals for her. They were sick goals, twisted aims, destructive desires. But she had _purpose_ then, even if her purpose was to hurt the Avengers. And that purpose changed to helping the Avengers, and she was still alright. And now she doesn’t even know if she’s an Avenger anymore. She doesn’t even know if Natasha is. And she’s started slipping back, much like Natasha must have, into desiring the first real purpose she had.

“We were both the villains of this story,” Natasha says, echoing what she’d said to Wanda the first time they’d kissed. “And now we don’t know which story we’re part of, anymore.”

“I’m part of a story with you in it,” Wanda notes. “So it can’t be that bad, right?” It’s cheesy, and she knows it, but she has a powerful desire to see Natasha smile again.

“We’ll see,” Natasha says, darkly. Wanda’s smile fades.

 

Natasha stands up and walks to her closet, pulling out a leather jacket, which she slides over her t-shirt. Businesslike, she strips out of her pajama pants and pulls on some skinny jeans. Wanda tries not to stare. “I guess I should get dressed, too?”

“Good idea, because I’m taking you on a date.” Natasha's reply is efficient and almost cold, until she turns and gives Wanda a crooked, playful grin.

Wanda blinks. “Are you, now?”

“So you’re saying no?”

“No! No, I didn’t say that. It’s just unex-”

“Thought so.” Natasha loops her purse over her arm and jerks her chin towards the door. “C’mon. We can go out for muffins. Wear the baseball cap I got you.”

“Love you too,” Wanda snarks.

Natasha freezes for a moment and turns back around, a very wry smile on her face. “And I, you,” she says equally snarkily, diving into a theatrical ballet curtsey. “And look at that. You’re learning sarcasm. We’ll make something out of you yet.”

Wanda scoffs and grins, hopping off Natasha’s bed and breezing by her, out the door of her room. She darts down the hallway to her own room and pulls on a thicker sweater and a pair of shin-high boots.

“You’re sure you’ll be warm enough?” Natasha asks, leaning against Wanda’s door.

“Yes,” says Wanda defiantly, putting her chin up. “It’s not that cold.”

“Friday, what’s the temperature?” Natasha asks the air, giving Wanda a skeptical look.

“28 degrees currently, Miss Romanova,” the artificial voice replies, seeming to come from all sides of the room at once.

Natasha closes her eyes for a moment and a muscle in her cheek moves, indicating that she’s trying and failing not to clench her teeth. “ _Romanoff._ Nata _sha_ Romanoff.”

“My apologies, Miss Romanoff. Mr. Stark rebooted my servers yesterday, removing custom names from my data banks.”

“Why?” Wanda asks.

“Someone, and I suspect Rhodes, with Vision’s help, hacked into her -- it? -- and made her start calling Tony ‘Mr. Stank,’” Natasha tells her. “Right, Friday?”

“Oh, no,” says F.R.I.D.A.Y. “I decided to start calling him that on my own.”

Wanda and Natasha give the ceiling of the room incredulous looks. “You can… do that?”

“Tony Stark upgraded my personality chip to have a, quote, ‘sense of humor,’ so now yes, I can.”

“That man is going to dig his own grave,” Natasha sighs. “Thank you, Friday. You can go.”

“Deactivating.”

“God, she’s creepy,” Natasha mutters.

“Wait!” calls Wanda, ignoring her. Nothing happens. “Friday, come back!”

“Hello, Miss Maximoff.”

“I have a question for you.”

“I’m prepared to answer any questions the residents have, to the best of my ability,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. replies.

“Are you Vision’s girlfriend?”

“Wanda!” Natasha doubles over laughing.

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” says F.R.I.D.A.Y. in a rather clipped tone. “Are there any further questions?”

“Nope. Thank you!”

“Deactivating.”

“Well, that went well,” says Natasha, still chuckling. “Still, I think you should get dressed in something a bit warmer. 28 degrees, hm?”

Wanda groans. “Can I borrow one of your jackets?”

“Will you actually return this one?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Wanda whines.

“Be right back.” Natasha leaves and returns with something black and leather, as well as what looks like a hand-knitted scarf. “This should work.”

She turns and starts down the hallway towards the stairs down, Wanda catching up behind her. “Where are we going?”

“Leroy’s. Best muffins in this dimension. And they’re only open until noon, so we’d better hurry.”

Wanda nods. “I’ve never been.”

“Hence why we’re going.” Natasha wraps an arm around Wanda’s waist, because she can. “Oh, thank god I’m not still in Russia. It’s... not a great place for the lesbians.”

“You’re lesbian?” Wanda asks. She’s slightly surprised; she had thought someone made reference to something with Natasha and Bruce. Though, now that she thinks about it, she herself never saw any realistic evidence of a romance.

“Yup.” Natasha adjusts her purse and starts down the stairs. “I always wondered why the seduce-and-kill-the-man missions were to easy for me. Well, there’s a reason for that.” Her smile turns sad and then turns hateful, the hate directed towards herself. “The only mission like that I ever had trouble with was Drakov’s daughter.”

“What happened there?” Wanda asks, hesitantly.

Natasha debates how much to tell her. “I may or may not have fallen in love with her before I killed her. We had sex one-too-many times for your typical seduce-and-kill mission, I guess. I actually got to know her, which is why I got attached. I don’t really feel anything sexual unless I know someone really well,” she confesses, “And that mission -- knowing her -- it was months, it took months. I memorized her face, her body, even taking on some of her mannerisms. She was beautiful. And the Red Room… well, it was suspicious, especially because for my other missions, I’d seduce but never outright fuck. Sex disgusted me completely, for years. But not with her. The only one.” She gives a wry smile. “They caught me, somehow, and then it was me or her, and… then it was me.”

“How did they catch you? How did they know?” Wanda is horrified, and Natasha’s matter-of-fact, almost crass speech is so distant and removed from what she’s discussing it almost seems like she’s telling a mildly amusing story that happened to someone else.

“I don’t know. The Red Room can do anything. They keep tabs on all their spies, all the time. Hacking the house cameras, peeping toms in the windows, just guessing by how I acted around her… I don’t know. But when I got back, they knew. And it was hell for me.” She shakes her head. “I don’t entirely know why. It seems like it would be an asset for an agent to have. Almost zero possibility of getting attached to missions, statistically speaking. Advantageous, removing one more variable from the complex equation. I guess a lot of the anger, the punishment, was just that I fell for her. I don’t know why I did. I didn’t know I _could_.”

 

She changes the subject to something slightly better. “Oh, and if you’re wondering about Bruce? That was a fuckup on my end.”

Wanda swallows her thoughts, and they don’t go down easily. “How was it a fuckup?”

“Well, for years I was trained to emotionally manipulate, to get men to fall under my spell. I think some of that pushed itself back out again, once Bruce started trusting me. Old habits die hard, and the worst habits die hardest. Kissing, confessing… it was easy. And it made me feel powerful again.”

Wanda has no response to that, because it’s something she knows well. Emotional manipulation. Natasha with her body and her with her magic… What difference does it make?

The two women go down another flight of stairs and through the front door, the chill air hitting them in a wave. Natasha lifts her head up, closing her eyes and inhaling the winter. Wanda snuggles deeper into Natasha’s jacket. “Come on,” Natasha says, rubbing her fingers together and sticking them in her pockets for warmth. “My car’s around the side.”

They walk to Natasha’s car, some black Chevrolet sporty thing (Wanda doesn’t pay much attention to makes and models), Wanda taking shotgun. “Wonder if we’ll see any Hanukkah decorations,” she says as Natasha backs up, pulls out of the parking spot, and starts driving over to the main road.

“Hope so,” Natasha replies, taking a curve quickly and putting them en route to Ashlynville, the nearest small town with an oddly southern name. She turns to Wanda. “If not, we erect a menorah ourselves, alright?”

Wanda nods and smiles, leaning back in her seat and watching trees go by. They don’t talk much, comfortable enough that the silence between them is a trusted one. When they stop at a light, Natasha takes her hands off the wheel and gives Wanda’s hand a gentle touch. Wanda flips her hand over and catches her fingers, lacing them with hers. “You’re sweet,” says Natasha, her voice growing distant. Her eyes take on a somewhat glassy look, and Wanda recognizes the expression she herself often wears. Natasha, in her mind, is travelling elsewhere.

“Are you alright?” Wanda asks, trying to gently shatter the spell. “Don’t… don’t dissociate.” She places her hand on Natasha’s shoulder and applies light pressure to her skin with her fingers. “Stay here. I’m here.”

“Right.” Natasha blinks as if coming out of a dream and tightens her hand on the wheel. “Right. Sorry. I don’t know what that was.”

“We’ve both lost those we love,” Wanda says quietly. But it’s the wrong thing to say, because Natasha just replies with-

“But you didn’t kill yours.”

*    *    *

“These muffins are delicious,” says Wanda, mouth full. Natasha is almost fully back to her normal self, or as near as Wanda can figure it with such a private person, and Wanda’s keen to keep her happy. It’s the first day of Hanukkah, after all. “Chocolate is my favorite.”

“Mine, too,” says Natasha, swallowing. “Basically a cupcake.” The two women, sitting by the window of Leroy’s Café, have a plate of mini-muffins in front of them, with flavors of blueberry, chocolate, and bran. The bran muffins are untouched, of course, because Wanda and Natasha have brains. Nat takes another bite, finishing the muffin, watching Wanda eats hers in one gulp.

“You’re happy,” says Natasha after a while of eating in silence, letting the sunlight silently fall onto them through the window and lacing their hands across the wooden table.

“I am,” says Wanda, and the simplicity yet truth of it surprises even her. “Are you?”

Natasha looks out the window thoughtfully, staring at the street overlapping her reflection in the glass. Often, she’ll view her reflection and categorize it, observe it, place character traits onto it -- _the reflection looks sad_ , rather than _I am lonely_. Or rotten. Or broken. Or cold. But today, she tries smiling at herself.

“I am,” she says, turning back to Wanda, whose mouth is full of another muffin. “And I’m glad you are, too.”

*    *    *

Leaving the warm, golden-hued, sun-filled café and heading back into the cold isn’t easy for either girl, but they draw off each other’s warmth, or seem to. Evening finds them both in Natasha’s room, exactly as they were a year ago, the menorah on the small table between them.

“I memorized the prayers this time,” says Natasha, giving Wanda her trademark smirk.

Wanda’s eyes widen. “You did?”

“For you.”

“Do you want to hold the shammus?” Wanda asks, just like before, touched to her very core by Natasha’s care. She holds the candle out.

This time, Natasha smiles and takes it, beginning the prayers as she looks at Wanda. “ _Baruch ata Adonai_ , _Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam_ .” She takes a lit match from Wanda and places it next to the wick, watching as it catches. “Blessed are you, Lord our God, sovereign of the universe. _Asher kidishanu b'mitz'votav v'tzivanu_ , who has sanctified us with his commandments and commanded us, _l'had'lik neir shel Chanukah_. To light the lights of Hanukkah. Amen.”

 

Wanda prays with her, their voices flowing together as the candlelight softens and rounds out their faces, creating half-invisible hollows and gold swaths across their skin. “ _Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam_ . Blessed are you, Lord, our God, sovereign of the universe, _she'asah nisim la'avoteinu bayamim haheim baziman hazeh_. Who performed miracles for our ancestors in those days at this time. Amen.”

“And now the third one?” Natasha asks, trying to make sure she got it right. “For the first night?”

Wanda nods.

“ _Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam_ . Blessed are you, Lord, our God, sovereign of the universe, _shehecheyanu v'kiyimanu v'higi'anu laz'man hazeh_ , who has kept us alive, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this season.”

Natasha exhales, relieved. Wanda smiles and turns to her. “Did you do that all in one breath?”

Natasha shrugs. “Wanted to get it right.”

It’s a rare, unguarded moment for her, and Wanda smiles to put her more at ease. “You did well. Now put the candle in!”

Natasha looks at the menorah as if it might bite her. Wanda comes around the side of the table and rests a hand on the small of her back, pushing her forward gently. “You can do it.”

“You’re sure it’s… right? For me to-”

Wanda nods solemnly. “I promise you, it is.”

Natasha’s face seems to crack a bit, and Wanda doesn’t know why. She moves closer again, moving her hand up to rest between Natasha’s shoulders. “We can do it together.”

She wraps her hand around Natasha’s, and together, they place the shammus into the tallest holder at the center of the menorah. It shines there, solitary, somehow seeming to provide more light than any electric lamp. The glow ringing it is gold and blue and hypnotizing, moving from side to side with the candle’s flickering. The shadows on the walls don’t bother Natasha now.

“Now the candle for the first night,” Wanda prompts.

Natasha nods and takes it off the table. Wanda strikes another match and lights it.

Together, they place it on the rightmost candleholder. Then, in sync, they step back.

 

The two lights gleam comfortingly, flickering gently, unthreateningly. Natasha reaches out and clasps Wanda’s hand. For a while, they stand in silence, watching the two candles glow, keeping their thoughts in their minds but feeling kinship, trust. Each can guess what the other is thinking of, and each gives the other the space she needs.

“Happy Hanukkah,” says Natasha, after a while.

“Merry Christmas,” Wanda replies, leaning her head on her girlfriend’s shoulder.  


The holy light falls over them, and neither is afraid.

  


_Christmas Eve will find me_

_Where the lovelight gleams_

_I am home this Christmas_

_When I’m with you, it seems._

_Wanda prays with her, their voices flowing together as the candlelight softens and rounds out their faces, creating half-invisible hollows and gold swaths across their skin. “Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam._


End file.
